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acquaintances, a cold and mechanical notion, which shows how little he understood of the depth, and holiness, and continuity of a true affection*. His friendship was selfish and one-sided. He was merely his own friend. The loss of a friend who deserves the name is utterly irreparable. It is a terrible laceration of the heart which never heals.

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Thy last sigh
Dissolved the charm; the disenchanted earth
Lost all her lustre !"

There is nothing which throws so dark a horror over death as the parting with a dear friend ; and the dreadful thought that we may never meet again, even in a future state, is almost insupportable. The great and awful change which must take place in our nature may annihilate the materials of friendship.

* It must be remembered, however, that even Cicero, in his Essay on Friendship, recommends us to repair the loss of old friends by new acquisitions. And Shenstone acknowledges that it was a maxiin with him that whenever he lost a person's friendship to engage a fresh friend in his place. But it is not so easy, to engage a friend, as you would a servant, just as you require him. There is a pleasant stanza on this subject in Don Juan.

“ O Job! you had two friends : one's quite enough,

Especially when we are ill at ease;
They are but bad pilots when the weather's rough,

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze :
When your affairs come round, one way or t’other,
Go to the Coffee House and take another."

The Poet, however, adds in the succeeding stanza

“ But this is not my maxim : had it been,
Some heart-aches had been spared me.

The thought of going to a Coffee House for a new friend was suggested to Lord Byron by a passage in Swift's or Walpole's letters, he did not remember which, where it is mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a friend was answered, “ When I lose one, I go to the St. James's Coffee House, and take another."

The ancients carried more of this world into their idea of a future state than we do, and cheered their last hours with the hope of again meeting those they loved with much the same personal feeling as that with which they parted. Modern philosophy is on this point perhaps more refined; but while it renders our future prospect less palpable, it is also less congenial to human associations.

STANZAS TO

(ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE, A FEW MONTHS AFTER MARRIAGE.)

I.

A Gloom hath gathered round thee now that will not pass away, Like gray mist from the mountain's peak, or storms from April's

day; There is a shade upon thy brow, a tempest in thy soul, No ray of earthly hope can cheer, no mortal voice control.

II.

For she, the charm, the life of life, hath vanished from the scene,
And thou art left to mourn in vain how brief her sway hath been ;-
Alas! too, like a meteor fair from some celestial clime,
That bright but transient vision touched the dusky wings of Time !

III.

Thy path is lone and desolate, and grief shall haunt thy breast,
Yet sometimes dreams of happier realms where weary pilgrims rest,
May flash upon thine upward gaze, and bid thy spirit soar
Where friends and lovers severed long, shall meet to part no more!

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

LADY—though no poetic fire
Breathe in my verse—no Muse inspire
My soul with that resplendent lore
That glitters in the page of MOORE-
With WORDSWORTH's sentiment profound-
Or Byron's storm of thought and sound-
Or classic CAMPBELL's patriot glow-
Or Scott's free strain, whose numbers flow
As wildly as the wandering rills
'Mid Scotia's proud romantic hills-
The state, the tenderness, and power
Of SouthEy in his happier hour-
The gentle truth, and visions bold,
Of him* the Tale of Love” that told
Or SHELLEY's wilderness of dreams,
His thunder-clouds, and meteor-gleams;
Though powers like these alone are given
To spirits touched with light from heaven,
Who seem upon this earth to wave
Celestial wands—and thousands crave
A spark of their immortal flame
To cheer them on the path of fame,
Yet crave in vain-and 'mid the throng
E'en I have dared an idle song,
Though barren rhymes my labours raise,
Poor shrubs on which the sun of praise

* Coleridge.

But seldom beams,- I do not fear
Fair LADY ! thine indulgent ear ;
For promptly at thy soft command-
And who could check his heart or hand
At beauty's call ?-I've framed a lay
Whose sound perchance some future day
May bid thee hail with kind regard
The memory of thy friend and bard.

But turning to my task and theme,
What rays of glory round me stream!
The dazzling gems these leaves enclose-
The various spells that genius throws
On every page—the flowerets rare
Transplanted in this bright parterre-
Strike dumb the faint descriptive Muse,
As sun-beams mock the painter's hues ;-
Nor need these simple verses tell
The hand of Taste hath chosen well.

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